


Lucky

by redambitions (viridianlight)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mafia AU, Non-Graphic Violence, request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:18:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viridianlight/pseuds/redambitions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is the leader of the notorious ABC mafia, and Grantaire is obviously being a distraction on purpose because Enjolras just really, really wants to make out with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by nekoartemis based on the Lucky Dog OP (you can find it on Youtube by searching "lucky dog op")
> 
> I didn't know what to title it so I just called it "Lucky"! That has absolutely nothing to do with the story (other than the video it's based off of.) Suggestions are welcome!

 Really it was all Bossuet's fault that they got arrested, but Enjolras wouldn't blame him. The entire group had decided long ago that Bossuet's bad luck isn't something that he would be blamed for. Besides, he and Joly had escaped, being just a hair faster than Enjolras and the rest of the group. They weren't here so Enjolras can't get angry with Bossuet. Getting arrested isn't a big deal anyway.

It is quite amusing, however, just how excited the police were the minute that Enjolras and his men were dragged, quietly and handcuffed into the station. The police were immediately on the phone to the local newspaper, proclaiming their success at capturing the leader of the notorious ABC mafia. What they didn't know, was that Bahorel had already been notified and he, along with Combeferre were already planning to bust them out.

But for the moment, they're here, stuck in a dirty, dimly lit cell. Enjolras didn't particularly dislike jail cells. They were just a small hindrance, since he never had never actually spent more than a couple of hours in one. They were quite pleasant actually. They were usually quiet and peaceful, a good time for thinking, but the bars keeping him in were not the problem. The problem is that he is in this small, confined area with Courfeyrac, Jehan, and Grantaire.

Courfeyrac is a frequent cell mate of Enjolras' and Enjolras' third in command. He is one of Enjolras' best and most trusted friends, but right now, he is moaning loudly about his empty stomach, yelling at the guards to bring him sustenance, cursing Bahorel under his breath for not being faster, flirting with Jehan by reciting Shakespeare and complaining to Grantaire, practically all at the same time, which is a feat that only Courfeyrac could pull off.

Jehan isn't arrested with Enjolras as much as Courfeyrac is, but he is always a pleasant cell mate, keeping to himself or keeping up a light conversation. But today, he has decided to braid real flowers into his hair. Of course, the one day in probably six months that he decides to wear real flowers instead of fake ones, is the day that Enjolras is stuck with him in a cell. Enjolras can barely talk when he is sneezing every few minutes and his eyes are watering like crazy.

And then there's Grantaire.

Grantaire isn't doing anything, he's just sitting against the wall, listening to Courfeyrac groaning about their dismal situation. Grantaire was muttering (mostly to himself) about how the police refused to give him his flask, but now he's just sitting quietly (probably because he has no alcohol to spur his tongue into talking), occasionally throwing smiles at Enjolras. He's just sitting there so Enjolras really shouldn't want to kiss him as much as he does right now.

Since Grantaire is being a major distraction so Enjolras is just going to ignore how the stubble on his jaw would feel so nice on Enjolras' neck and how his shirt is riding up so a hint of olive skin is showing and how he just looks really, really fucking kissable.

Dammit. He'll just concentrate on keeping the snot running from his nose.

 

 

After sitting behind the bars of the cell for about an hour, Enjolras sees headlights flash three times from the window at the end of the hallway.

“They're here,” he says quietly, prodding the now dozing Courfeyrac on the shoulder. Jehan looks up attentively. “Grantaire, let's go.”

Grantaire pushes himself off the wall. “Be glad that I'm not too drunk to pick a lock,” he says. “The police should've given me my alcohol if they really wanted to keep us here.” He grins (and it shouldn't make Enjolras want to shove him against a wall).

Jehan automatically pulls a bobby pin from his hair and passes it to Grantaire. Making sure the guard is asleep, Grantaire slips his thin arm through the bars to quickly pick the lock. With a small click, the door opens and the four of them silently sneak past the horribly inadequate guard.

“We're in the Top Wanted list and all we get is one, sleeping guard?” Courfeyrac grumbles. “I mean, really. Anyone could get past this.”

“Be quiet,” Enjolras hisses. “Where the fuck are our things? We need to get out before someone actually comes.”

“Here,” Jehan says, managing to have snuck past Enjolras and the guard to the door to the evidence room which had been opened slightly. Their weapons and miscellaneous things are on the shelf, piled haphazardly next to neatly labeled boxes and clear bags.

Enjolras takes his gun and tucks it into the back of his pants and his knives into his jacket. He passes Courfeyrac's guns (which is covered in childish stickers probably stolen from the dollar store) to him. Courfeyrac gleefully takes them and coos, “Oh how I've missed my babies!”

Jehan buckles his belt around his tiny waist and makes sure that his knives are all in place how he likes them. Grantaire sticks his own gun into his black jeans and swings their bag over his shoulder.

“Are the earpieces still in there?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire rummages through the contents of the bag as the four of them head towards the exit. “Yeah, here it is.” He pulls out a tangle of gray earpieces and microphones, handing them out. Enjolras clips his on and immediately talks into the the microphone.

“Combeferre, we're out and heading towards you. Do you copy?”

There is a small crackle before Combeferre's reassuring voice comes on. “I copy. Get yourselves out of there. I see some activity in the front office. And they're getting suspicious of us.”

“Why would they suspicious?” Enjolras asks, already drawing his gun just in case. “Didn't you bring the black van? It looks just like an official car.”

“About that...” Combeferre starts. “Bahorel decided that we had used that car too many times, so he brought one of his new cars, well, one of his more recently acquired cars.” Bahorel's deep laughter can be heard in the background.

Enjolras groans as Grantaire laughs. Courfeyrac tells Combeferre to give Bahorel his congratulations and Jehan starts to asks about the car when a group of police officers come around the corner.

Just for a moment, the two groups stare at each other. Enjolras is the first to move, firing a shot in the general direction of the police. He isn't aiming to kill. If he was, half of them would be dead already.

The officers launch into chaos, grabbing weapons and alerting more of their colleagues. By the time they've gotten into some sort of order, Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Jehan and Grantaire are halfway to the exit. A bullet whizzes past them, but Jehan heard it coming much earlier and simply dodges to the side. Courfeyrac has a gun in each hand and turns around for a second to send two shots in the officers' direction. Even while holding onto their bag with one hand, Grantaire manages to shoot a couple of officers in the knees, disabling them efficiently. The bullets fired at the four of them are erratic and poorly aimed. The ones that manage to get near them, they can easily sense and adjust their position a little to avoid them. Another stray bullet shot by the police smashes into the door, shattering the glass and setting off the alarm.

“Less work for us!” Courfeyrac shouts, getting to the exit first and leaping through the frame, scattering the last of the glass shards onto the concrete by knocking into them with his long legs. Enjolras dashes out after Courfeyrac while Grantaire almost falls when the bag snags on the door frame. Jehan, being so petite, slips through without thinking. The police could have easily gotten through, but somehow, two of them crash into what's left of the door at the same time which sends the ones behind them flailing.

Enjolras is quite happy with how the escape is going so far until he sees the escape vehicle.

“Fuck yeah!” Courfeyrac yells, hopping into the back of the car.

“Sweet ride,” Grantaire says approvingly, tossing the bag in with Courfeyrac.

Jehan almost stops to examine the car before he remembers the situation and jumping in beside Courfeyrac who is not even sitting in a seat. Combeferre smiles at Enjolras apologetically.

“Well Enjolras,” Bahorel says with a giant grin, his arm hanging out of the driver's side. “Are you going to get in or am I going to have to shoot some motherfuckers?”

“A bright red convertible,” Enjolras says, very much aware that the police are going to be there within seconds. “You chose a fucking bright red convertible as our escape vehicle? There's only four seats and two fucking doors!”

“That's why we're not sitting in seats,” Jehan tells Enjolras conversationally.

“And it's actually a scarlet, not red,” Grantaire says, smirking. “Nice find bro.” He high fives Bahorel before patting the spot between him and Jehan. “Hurry up, they're coming.”

Enjolras stops glaring at Bahorel for a moment to look up. The police are indeed pouring into the parking lot although still too far away to get in a decent shot. Enjolras sighs. “Fine,” he mutters, lifting himself into the goddamn car.

Bahorel roars, “See ya, motherfuckers!” as Courfeyrac whoops. The engine ignites with a very satisfying sound and the convertible is tearing out of the parking lot at double the speed limit. Courfeyrac raises his arms like he's on a roller coaster (without a safety bar or any sort of safety precaution). Jehan has a hand holding Courfeyrac's shirt. Enjolras very nearly falls off of the car but Grantaire's tattooed arm wraps around him to steady him.

“Whoa there,” he shouts over the sound of honking traffic and wind. “Wouldn't want the most infamous mafia leader to die by falling off of a car would we?” He grins again and fuck, he should stop grinning like that because it's making Enjolras want to make out with him until his chapped lips are the color of the convertible.

“That would be unfortunate,” Enjolras says, pushing himself back up, pretending that he wasn't just focusing on Grantaire's mouth.

 

 

When they make it out of the noisy city and onto the silent freeway, Bahorel begins to slow down, eventually stopping by the roadside.

“We're almost out of gas,” he announces, popping open the trunk and tossing bundles out. “I'm gonna go down a bit more. There's a gas station up ahead where I'll fill up the tank and get some extra for the road. We'll camp here tonight.”

Combeferre sighs and mutters something about finding a motel, but starts to help Courfeyrac set up the tents farther away from the road. Grantaire sits to the side, coaxing up a fire and clutching a case of beer close to him. When Bahorel pulled it out of the trunk, Grantaire had cried in delight and promptly drained a bottle or two. Jehan takes the tents out of their bags. There are only two.

“There's only two tents,” Enjolras says, walking back over to where Bahorel is closing the trunk.

“What? Did you expect me to take a tent for each of us in my darling car?” Bahorel says, patting the car. “Besides, it won't be too bad,” he continues, nodding in the direction of Grantaire and winking.

Enjolras feels the blush creeping up his face and is glad that the light is over by Combeferre. “I don't know what you're talking about. There's six of us and two tents.”

“One of them is a four person tent. The other is a two person tent, and guess who's sleeping in that one,” Bahorel finishes in a sing-song voice.

Enjolras gapes at him. “Y-You don't mean...? Wait, fuck no. I'm not sharing a tent with Grantaire!”

“Yes you are!” Bahorel argues. “It is so obvious that you and R have the hots for each other. Everyone knows except for you two because you two are dumb asses. I have no idea how you guys became so good in the mafia. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get gas.”

Enjolras stands there with his arms crossed, glaring at Bahorel. “The others won't want to sleep with Courfeyrac. He'll just have to take the smaller tent.”

Bahorel laughs, revving up the engine. “You think it's only me in on this plan? Courfeyrac thought of it. Combeferre planned it. I just helped it into fruition. See ya.” He swerves onto the road, raising a hand in goodbye.

Enjolras opens his mouth to yell at Bahorel, but thinks better of it. Instead he starts stomping back to the camp. How could Courfeyrac betray him like that? And Combeferre too! It isn't that he doesn't want to be with Grantaire, but he is the leader of the ABC Mafia. He can't be distracted by incredibly hot men with unruly black curls and clear gray eyes. He can't let a relationship come between him and the cause so this simply cannot happen because if Enjolras ends up kissing Grantaire even just once, he might not be able to stop.

“Dude, where were you?” Courfeyrac asks from his seat next to the campfire that Grantaire had miraculously lit from the damp branches littering the ground. Combeferre is roasting a hot dog skewered on a long twig and Grantaire is opening another bottle of beer. Jehan rests against Courfeyrac's knees, arranging leaves into his hair.

“Talking with Bahorel,” Enjolras replies. “Have you set up the tents yet?”

Courfeyrac gestures grandly at the structures behind him. “Up and ready to go! I unpacked the sleeping bags and everything too.”

“What about sleeping arrangements?” Enjolras asks, desperately hoping that Bahorel was bluffing about the whole plan. No one in their right mind would want to sleep in a confined space with Courfeyrac who talks (and/or sings cheesy pop songs) in his sleep and flails around all night long. He can't even sleep in a twin size bed anymore because he'll fall right off.

“Me, darling Jehan, 'Ferre and Bahorel are in the big one,” Courfeyrac says.

Shit.

“And you and Grantaire will take the small one!” he finishes triumphantly, with a significant look at Enjolras. Grantaire's head pops up and his eyes widen in surprise.

“Uh, are you sure 'cause —.”

“Yes, we're very sure R!” Courfeyrac yells over Grantaire's protests. “No more arguments. The mighty Courfeyrac has made his decision.”

“Since when did you run things?” Enjolras asks with a glare.

“Since around three minutes ago,” Courfeyrac says cheerily. “Now are those hot dogs done? I'm starving.”

 

 

Enjolras lays stiffly in the sleeping bag, staring up at the canvas, much too close to Grantaire than he should be. Grantaire is turned away from Enjolras and from the sound of his breathing, he too is laying there silently, not sleeping.

After a while, with a lot of shifting and crinkling of the sleeping bag, Grantaire's breath deepens and slows, signaling that he has fallen asleep, while Enjolras still lays there with his eyes wide open, but now that Grantaire is sleeping, Enjolras breathes a little easier.

With a sudden spurt of decisiveness, Enjolras inches out of his sleeping bag and crawls the few inches over to Grantaire.

Grantaire is facing up now, his right hand resting on his rising and falling chest. His other arm is thrown over his head. In sleep, his lips are slightly open and his face is relaxed, making him look younger than he is. The cynicism and disappointment usually buried in his eyes are covered with delicate eyelids and long lashes. He smells like the smoky fire, a touch of alcohol and vanilla.

Enjolras doesn't know why he does what does. He later will blame it on sudden stupidity and the one (but he says four) beer he had earlier. With his hands braced on either side of Grantaire's head, Enjolras leans down and gently kisses Grantaire on the lips. In the moments he spends lingering over Grantaire with his lips still touching Grantaire's, Grantaire's eyes flutter open and Enjolras springs backwards.

“O-Oh shit, I-I, um, fuck I —.” Enjolras stammers incoherently.

Grantaire sits up, his eyes wide open and looks at Enjolras for a second before jumping forward and pinning Enjolras against the ground, then kissing him desperately. After a few seconds of heavy kissing that probably counts as making out, Grantaire pauses and sits up.

“Shit, uh, are you okay with this? I mean, you never really —.”

“Shut up,” Enjolras growls and pulls Grantaire down by his t-shirt which is in the process of being removed, as well as Enjolras' shirt and both their pants.

So maybe sometimes Courfeyrac's plans worked out, but that doesn't mean that he's going to be making any actual decisions anytime soon.

 

When Enjolras wakes up in the morning, the sun has barely risen and the birds outside haven't begun to chirp yet. The spot next to him is also empty. Enjolras groans, struggling into a shirt and some pants. Stepping into his shoes and running a hand through his tangled hair, Enjolras ducks out of the tent (but not before sticking a gun into the waistband) and looks around for Grantaire.

He finds him sitting on the hood of the convertible, where it's parked between the trees for cover. Grantaire holds a lit cigarette between his nimble fingers and plays with his loose shoelace with the other hand.

“Hey,” Enjolras says quietly, lifting himself onto the car next to Grantaire.

Grantaire is startled, quickly glancing at Enjolras before turning his head to stare at the rising sun. “Hey,” he replies distantly.

Enjolras frowns. Something is wrong with Grantaire or is being distant a normal thing the day after having sex? “What's wrong?”

He sighs. “Nothing.”

Enjolras is frustrated with Grantaire and grips his shoulder, turning him to face him. “Bullshit, what's wrong? Did I do something?”

“Oh god, no. No, it's not you. It's just... Are you sure you wanted to do that?”

“Do what?” Enjolras asks, confused.

“Y'know... have sex with me?” Grantaire says, looking embarrassed.

“Why wouldn't I have wanted to do that? I sort of started it,” Enjolras says.

“It was probably just the stress piling up or something,” Grantaire mumbles, partly to himself, partly to Enjolras. “It's fine. I can just leave you alone now.” He jumps off the hood and starts to walk towards the tents. Enjolras stares after him, before sliding off and catching Grantaire's arm.

“Wait!”

Grantaire turns and there's is so much surprise, hope and pure adoration in those eyes that Enjolras doesn't feel forced at all when he pulls Grantaire in to tenderly kiss him.

And it's perfect.

(Until Courfeyrac comes out of the tent and see's them. Then he's cheering and screaming and hugging both of them to death, squealing, “'I'm a fucking genius!” until Bahorel pulls him off and tossing him back into the tent, muttering, “I slept next to fucking Courfeyrac last night. I'm not dealing with screaming pretty boys until I've had some alcohol.”)

**Author's Note:**

> Visit me at my [tumblr](http://lovelylittlerevolution.tumblr.com)!


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